If Only -
by Walder
Summary: An ambitious servant of Tzeentch hungers for power, but what price will he pay for it? One-shot short story.


Long ago, there was an austere mortal servant of Tzeentch. On his planet, people only knew him as a big banker, but he secretly invoked chaos powers in his mad financial schemes that let him play the planet like a puppet on a string. He was the richest and most powerful person in the world, and perhaps even the star system, but the power he had was never enough. Any coveted goal he realized seemed pointless once he achieved it. There was always more to control.

One day when he was alone in his secluded country home, a Tzeentchian daemon called Scar'l'mah appeared to him. The daemon made an offer; the opportunity to ascend his mortal coil and hold true power in the warp, dominion over vast legions, vying against the other Chaos lords in the Great Game. For this to happen, the man only had to do a personal favor.

Before even hearing the daemon out, he agreed. Nothing, he rationalized, wasn't worth the price of true power.

So the daemon eliminated all the man's senses; sight, sound, taste, smell, and touch. It then bestowed on him a possessed amulet. The daemon spoke through his mind; the amulet was to guide him to the Palace of Slaanesh deep within the horrifying bowels of the Warp, where he was to give it to a greater daemon by the name of Sar'an. If the greater daemon put it on, it would die in an otherworldly agony so horrifying, even such a daemon of Slaanesh as it could not find it enjoyable.

The man panicked. Even after only a few minutes, his lack of senses drove him mad, and he didn't believe there was a way he could accomplish such a huge feat. Getting to the palace alone would take over a millennium. But the deal had been made. The daemon opened a portal to the Warp and set the mortal on his course.

The Warp is an abyss of time. The man long forgot how long he'd spent aimlessly wandering, robbed of all senses. Only the light pull and whispered promises of power from the amulet kept him going.

The amulet talked to him incessantly at first, but gradually the amulets words became less like words, and instead morphed into notions. After a time it became hard to tell apart the amulet's thoughts with his own.

And after a millennium of travel, he stopped. He did not understand why he'd stopped, but eventually there was a voice in his head.

"Yes?" It asked. The voice was smooth, clear, deep, and baritone. It was wonderfully refreshing to finally hear something, even only a mental voice.

But the man could not speak. He had forgotten how to speak.

"Oh, dear," the voice continued, "You look positively _awful_. How long have you travelled? Come, I have the most delectable dishes here." And as much as he desired to, the man knew no way to respond.

Then, a thought came to him. This was it! Sar'an, the daemon! At long last, Scar'l'mah could have his revenge, and the man could have true power in the warp.

So the amulet flashed images in his mind, and tried to move his muscles to put the itself on the daemon. But the man rescinded. Despite all this time, the man wasn't a complete fool. The only way he got here was with the amulet's help. If he killed the daemon right out in the open, what would become of him? How would he retrieve the amulet and get out of this place alive? He had to choose the perfect time to kill the daemon.

"I say," Sar'an said, "That is a lovely broach you're wearing. Nothing like in my collection of course, but there's a certain quaint charm to it. I wonder-" The daemon reached for amulet, but the man pulled away. "Well then! No need to be rude!"

So the man stayed with the daemon, and followed it through the power of the amulet. He heard no other company, daemon or otherwise, but he imagined he looked quite queer to whoever saw him.

"Are you going to follow me forever, mortal?" Sar'an voiced, "Go make yourself useful. Prepare my special drinks." Sar'an then gave a mental image of how to prepare the drinks. "And if they're not absolutely perfect, I shall have you tortured for a few centuries. Or killed. Whichever comes first."

Grudgingly, the amulet ceased its urgings and informed the man on how to do his duty. He could not kill the daemon if he himself was dead.

This service continued. Each time the man did something, Sar'an wanted another thing. If the man did not perform his tasks perfectly, Sar'an would have him "tortured," though since he had been psychically robbed of all sense, this proved little more than a waste of time.

All the while, the man and amulet waited for the perfect time to strike. But Sar'an was never alone. There was always someone or something occupying its attentions.

This went on for centuries, perhaps even several millenniums. The man eventually became so good at his tasks, that even with the ever-shifting structure of the palace and its grounds, and even when Sar'an gave him a newer task, he was able to perform it precisely to its orders. Eventually he did not even need the amulet's help; he could function without any of his senses.

"You know," Sar'an voiced one day, "I'm so very glad you stumbled here. Good help is hard to find. Most of my mortal servants in the past were too occupied with their own pleasures to truly serve me. But you don't seem concerned with serving yourself at all. It's as if you're driven by some purpose."

The man did not reply. The amulet made no notions either. Even it had become obsessed with filling the daemon's orders, for if it could just complete one more task, and find just the right moment, Sar'an could be assassinated, and both the man and amulet could finally have the power they'd thirsted for so long.

Today, it is sometimes talked about among Slaaneshi daemons of the devoted Broached Butler, as the man had come known to be. Rumor has it even the Prince of Pleasure himself admires his dedication.


End file.
